


Belleville

by Tengwar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 17:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15711603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tengwar/pseuds/Tengwar
Summary: Peter has started hearing stories about a spark rocketing through Europe burning up magic like cheap fireworks.  Not for one second did he think it would be Stiles Stilinski.  Not for one moment would he care.  But then Beacon Hills called him.Beacon Hills always pulled him back in. Not Stiles Stilinksi.  Beacon Hills.





	Belleville

High in the northeast of part of Paris is a small suburb called Belleville. It is less popular than its more popular cousins in the south closer to the centre of Paris and full of immigrants too. Armenians, Greeks and a large Chinese community have made their homes in in Belleville as too have immigrants from Africa. It’s harder stick out in Belleville, harder to be noticed. That was Peter's thinking when he chose to live there. Surely here among the old time Parisian bread shops and baguettes and poisonnieres, the Tuesday markets and the more recent influx of head scarves and sub Saharan faces , an American werewolf trying to go incognito would be just another face in the storm. That’s how Peter liked it. The quiet life. That’s how he chose to have it.

That’s not to say that he didn’t keep one finger, just one, in what was happening in the supernatural world. He had a small network of people who kept him informed about what was happening, a small group of men and women who knew about these things and enjoyed a glass of red wine in a bar in the evening. Derek and he spoke every few weeks too, a general exchange of news and well-being that kept a thin pack bond humming between them and that they both pretended was unimportant to them while making sure they were there waiting for the phone call they took turns in taking.

But one finger in that world was enough, here in Belleville he could keep it at arm’s length just how he wanted and needed it to be. His sanity had come back quickly enough after. Beacon Hills, but his pride had taken a king hit. A king hit that increasingly he found he didn’t mind. That in his wiser moments knew he had much needed and knew also that his new and hard learned humility was the only thing that gave him peace. Which is why he deeply resented taking that one bad call from Derek and then the even worse the one form Sheriff Stilinksi. What was it to him if Stiles Stilinksi had run into trouble on what could only be called an ill-advised college gap year? Yes he had heard of someone, some kid racketing around Europe hopped up on magic and the mystical, sparking trouble everywhere he went. Genevieve had told him that she had seen him, she thought, while she was on a writing holiday in Greece, but had described an over anxious edgy kid with dark circles under darker eyes and a cunning disregard for the old wisdoms, fairly cracking with untutored spark.

Peter had put the dramatic description down to a hangover from the writing holiday and there was no way he could have made the connection between that description and Stiles at all, thank you very much Derek. And absolutely no way it was going to be his responsibility to wade in a clean him up, no matter how Derek tried to tell him it was. ‘He is not my pack Derek.’ ‘Peter. He’s mine sort of.’ ‘So you come and get him.’ ‘Peter, I told you, I’m the last person he wants to see. I think he thinks I’m trying to control him.’ ‘Well, that's sort of true isn’t it?’ ‘No.’ Derek almost howled. Peter smiled into the phone and hung up. Still so easy.

That would have been that as far as Peter was concerned. Derek had asked, Peter had said no and his small circle of friends who knew about that stuff knew he was just not interested in hearing about the young American spark pinballing around Europe more and more wildly no matter how good the story. He was at work his phone rang three times one after the other. His boss Reynaud signaled to him to take the call before he personally snapped his phone into pieces so Peter answer the next call without thinking to check who it was. ‘Peter Hale? It’s John Stilinski. I need your help.’

*****

Peter found Stiles in a bed on the 4th level of the Saint- Louis hospital looking like a sleepy caged cat. His hair was cropped short, fairly close to his head. Stiles kept his eyes closed for a few moments and Peter wasn't sure why he was pretending to be asleep.

‘Ah the sleeping princess.’ He mocked softly above the hum of French voices in the corridor.

Stiles opened his eyes and turned to look at him. He was frighteningly thin and his hair served only to highlight every bone and bump on his head. His nose looked enormous against his sunken eyes and his cheeks were pale. Peter felt the thump of pack in his heart and was simultaneously absurdly pleased for a moment that John Stilinksi couldn’t see his son at the moment. Stiles need a month of sleep and six good meals a day to be right again physically. Whatever feeling of home that was left in Peter hummed itself to life. It would always be difficult to ignore the call of Beacon Hills.

‘Fuck off Peter.’

'oh come on.' Peter said feeling amused.

‘I was going to kiss you to see if I could awaken sleeping beauty.’

‘Hilarious. What do you want?’

‘Well. What I’m supposed to say here is that I’m here to help you Stiles. At the request of your father no less.’

Stiles looked up from where he was playing with the white cotton blanket with his long fingers.

‘My dad?’

‘Yes. Don’t look so surprised. Yes. Your dad. Called me’

‘And you found that reason enough to come here?’

‘You seem to be suggesting that I wasn't champing at the bit to see you Stiles.’

Stiles mouthed _champing at the bit_ back at him sarcastically and Peter had to stomp down the urge to throttle him.

‘What did he say to you?

’ ‘Curiosity killed the cat. Stiles.’

Stiles huffed out deep breath. ‘Okay.’ He said drawing the word out slowly. ‘Never mind.’

‘Don’t be so petulant love. That's actually what he said.

’ ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’

‘Well, more that your natural born and possibly criminally irresponsible curiosity had once again gotten the better of you, and that you had waded into trouble without thinking and that it reminded him of when you were younger…’

‘Okay. Fine. Thanks. Well you’ve checked on me now, and you can report back that you’ve seen me and that I’m actually ok.’

Peter looked at him in disbelief.

‘Are you though? Stiles. Are you okay? Because honestly I've see you look better.’

Just then a knock on the door and a hospital porter bearing a tray of food came into the room. Stiles perked up immediately.

‘Oh man lunchtime!, Peter have you even eaten in a French hospital before? Oh it shits all over Beacon Hills general. Let me tell you.’

Stiles looked more animated than he had yet and the sight of the tray of food. His wrists and the jut of his collarbone was proof enough that eating three balanced meals had not been high on his list of things to do while he had been on his little European vacation. His enthusiasm over lentil and lamb soup and a glass pot of yogurt was appalling. He sighed.

‘No Stiles, I haven't ever had a meal in a French hospital.’ H

e looked around him. At the side of the room was a small alcove built into the wall to store a patients few bits and pieces. On it sat a grubby day pack and a small pile of clothes folded over a pair of sneakers. Peter could smell them and it was clear that they were washed a long time ago.

‘Where’s the rest of your things?’

‘What?’ Stiles spoke through a mouthful of bread and soup.

‘Your things, clothes, books, shoes, toiletries?’ he gestured at the small pack.

‘Things are just things Peter. I realised that they were weighing me down.’

‘You were robbed then?’ Stiles gave Peter a disappointed look that Peter felt he understood well enough.

‘Were you? Robbed?’

‘No. Not really. I can look after myself.’

Peter's eyes rolled.

‘What? Look. I get it okay? I know everyone back home in Beacon Hills is like “oh poor Stiles” he’s losing it or whatever.’

Stiles cracked open the small pot of yogurt and spooned into with enthusiasm. ‘Oooh prune. But in fact I’m fine. Peachy. You can tell whoever that.’

‘Says the same man currently having a special moment with prune yogurt in a French hospital having been brought in here by police who were concerned for your welfare, who contacted your father who contacted Derek, who contacted your father who contacted me.’

Stiles shifted up in his bed and fiddled with the spoon and napkin for a moment.

‘Prune yogurt is delicious. Peter. I will call my dad. You can go.’

‘Oh Stiles. Poor sweet sad, poor fucked up Stiles. That is not what is happening today.‘

Stile sighed hard.

‘You look like shit Stiles. And I’ve been hearing stories about your whirlwind trip through Europe.’

Stiles affected a look of boredom.

‘Oh yeah, what did you hear?’ Peter watched him and felt a wave of resignation. He could not walk away now that he had seen Stiles with his own eyes; he looked world weary but Peter could hear the giveaway uptick of his heartbeat and the frantic loss all around him.

‘A fascinating tale. Really. An untutored spark travelling around selling magic for cheap and burning himself out along the way, an uncommon disregard for his own welfare…you get the picture.’

Stiles huffed a laugh.

‘How dramatic you make it sound.’ Stiles said looking pleased. ‘Sounds like a you’ve been keeping an eye of me.’

‘You could not be further from the truth.’ Peter sighed. It felt like a long time since he had the energy to spar the way he so often did with Stiles . ‘The thing is Stiles. We could stay here all day talking about what a fun time you’ve been having, or how good you are at being independent and don’t need no man. Whatever. But it’s not just me is it? Neither of us really has the heart for it. I can’t be bothered. You are here in hospital with a drip in your arm and a battalion of worried doctors here and a father at the end of his rope in Beacon Hills, you have no money, no clothes from the looks of it, nothing to your name and you look like you’ve just about burnt out your spark.’

Stiles flinched and looked away, back down at his fingers in his lap. He could feel himself flush with shame.

‘Probably no insurance and no way of paying this bill. What were you planning on doing a runner when you had your fill of prune yogurt? Well?’

‘Its none of your business Peter.’

‘I absolutely agree Stiles. I really do. But I owe your dad. So.’

‘You owe my dad? What for?’

‘Mind your business. Put down your prunes. Get your things. I’ve told your doctor he can discharge you to my care and let me tell you she was thrilled. Apparently they were worried you had no where else to go and no money to go with. And then I was there. Their lucky day. Your lucky day.’

Stiles kicked off the cotton blanket mulishly and felt a stab of embarrassment when his bony white knees came into view.

‘Pass me my clothes.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Peter. Just. Are you helping or not.’

Peter picked up the clothes with the tip of his fingers and dropped them into Stiles lap.

‘I’ll be outside.’

 

*****

 

When Peter pulled the key from the pocket of his trouser and eased them into the old lock of his front door Stiles was still making his way up the stairs slowly behind him. From his vantage point at the top floor he could look down the tall tight stair case as it twisted it way up the middle of the building and see Stiles stopped to catch his breath on the second floor. It was an old staircase, original to the odd wedged shaped building he lived in.

The ground floor at the skinny edge of the wedge housed a bakery, nothing too fancy, just one of the many chains that sold fresh bread in the city everyday red and white check curtains in the window, a small sandwich board on the store out the front advertising the specials., though still inarguably better than any bakery in Beacon Hills. Stiles had stopped to inhale huge lungful of the yeasty, crisps smell coming from the open door of the shop and Peter had called his name twice before he realized he needed to follow him through a small green door past a row of battered mailboxes and an ancient doorbell intercom that he taken great pleasure in taking a piece of masking tape and writing HALE across it before pulling if off and sticking it over the name that had been there before it.

Moving inside his small apartment he looked around at it with curiosity. He wondered what Stile would make of his homely little rooms, a largish lounge room opening onto a tiny balcony, a balconette really. The main room was filled with two sofas, one long enough to stretch out and sleep on and the other squeezed in between the bookcase and the coffee table where his laptop sat charging sluggishly. In the same room and also looking out towards the balconette was the kitchen. It was only a sink with a board of wood to pull down over it, some cupboards and a four burner stove, and a small toaster oven that he had been surprised were pretty common in most of the small kitchens he saw in freinds apartments. In front of this sat a long wooden freestanding counter - quite thin, and with two stools underneath which he never used unless it was to prop his lap top on when he was trying to cook. He sometimes did his ironing on the little board that he slipped behind the fridge when not in use.

Further down the point of the wedge was a small bathroom with a large window that opened all the way, and then his bedroom a mid sized room with a plain wooden bed, dresser and cupboard. On the wall by the windows some previous tenant had installed two large wooden pegs into the wall which had confused him when he had first moved in before he realized they were perfect for hanging his clothes on. Much of his small wardrobe of clothes hung there now, A few blazers and trousers, jeans and hoodies and teeshirts folded into the the small drawers. Everything just so. Quiet, peaceful and replenishing.

 

Deep in the wedge of the building was the last room of his small home, an oddly shaped blunt triangle of a room, only just big enough to lie down in and made almost entirely of old fashioned sash windows which stuck every time he tried top open or close them. Peter left this room empty though the view from this small wedge of a room was of the green trees and the charm of the old fashioned cross roads below. Each corner at this point of the roads was filled with an old French building and led down towards the Rue de Belleville, its Tuesday and Friday markets and the fish shop that Peter held his breath for as he walked by each day.

 

Stiles entered his apartment behind him just as Peter was putting his backpack down on the coffee table and wondering what to do next

. ‘Huh’ said Stiles.

He wandered over to the windows of the lounge room looked out over the view of rooftops, mostly a pale gray shimmer in this late evening light. In the morning he would be able to see lot further, for miles really towards the center of Paris, each roof top starkly accentuated by the light and shadows of early morning but at this time of day the gray of the zinc roofs and the pale gray of the early evening sky tended to be indistinguishable.

Stiles ran his finger along the funny low window of the kitchen, no taller than a book and strangely placed at hip height, a feature that returned in Peter's own bedroom which made more sense there as he could lean over and look out of it while he lay in bed. Stiles let his fingers trail  long the the wooden counter separating the room and rubbed across the melon Peter had set there after visiting the Tuesday fruit market yesterday. It was a small melon, perhaps the size of two fists and pale cream in colour with dark green stripe bending around its edges.

‘Would you like me to cut some for you?’ Peter asked nodding at the melon.

Stiles looking uncertain all at once so Peter opened up the small drawer of cutlery next to the sink and pulled out his one large chefs knife. He took the melon to board over the sink and sliced it open. When he had bought it earlier that morning the market vendor had told him that the smell of the melon was the smell of the south of France in the best days of summer. Opened on his chopping board it revealed two perfect pale orange circles filled with seed.

He trimmed the seeds and tough skin away before handing a thick crescent moon shaped slice to Stiles on the point of his knife. It was so juicy it slipped briefly in Stiles fingers though he caught it up quickly enough and Peter put his own slice to his mouth wondering again what he was supposed to do with Stiles now, now that he gone and got him, paid his hospital bill out of the Hale insurance money fund that he and Derek only used for emergencies and taken him home in a taxi that smelt strongly of Gauloise cigarettes and the Red Bull on the drivers lips. What was he going to do now?

‘It's not what I expected at all. ‘ Stiles said suddenly as he walked up the hall towards the bathroom and bedroom.

Peter couldn't tell if he meant the melon he was now licking from his fingers or the small flat, its faded parquet floors and the old Persian rug beneath the leather of the second hand sofas.

‘What were you expecting? Peter asked.

‘Something… grander.’ Stiles replied as he drifted down the hallway.

Well. Peter tried to think of something to say. The flat was small enough that Stiles would be able to hear him speak from any part of it. There was nothing grand about any of it. The air between them felt tense and awkward and Peter felt strangely like he had exposed his belly to a predator by bringing Stiles here. Stiles wandered back into the the main room where Peter was still standing holding the kitchen knife. He trailed his fingers again up the wall and walked by the front door double checking the lock on it. What was he worried would come bursting through?

‘I will make some dinner in a minute. ‘ Said Peter. ‘Chicken.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘Do you want a shower? It’s a bit of a funny tap, you need to let it really heat up before you are tempted to add any cold water, though it is so warm, perhaps…’

‘Thanks, a cool shower would be good.’ Stiles pulled at the teeshirt at his neck as if to fan himself cooler with it. It _was_ warm, a beautiful summers evening. Peter had planned to meet Reynaud and his girlfriend Sophie for drinks. He would need to message them an apology.

‘I can get you some clothes, if you’d like to borrow something clean.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Oh. Well okay. Well just help your self, there are shorts and teeshirts folded in the dresser. Just help yourself. There’s a towel on the shelves behind the bathroom door too.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’  Stiles wandered off again. Peter could hear him opening drawers in the bedroom. The thunk of shoes as they were toed off and dropped on the floor. The bathroom door closing and the taps groaning on. Stiles had turned both on at once, ensuring that it would be freezing for the first few minutes. Peter smiled has he heard Stiles gasping and spluttering through the shock of cold water.

Peter turned to the fridge and pulled the paper wrapped chicken out and set It by the stove. With one ear he heard Stiles cold gasps subside as he cut open the wrappings of the chicken and Stiles happy sighs as the water eventually warmed up little. He would grill the chicken tonight he thought. Perhaps just few green beans on the side. He had fresh bread and tomatoes too. Something would come together. He opened the cupboard by the fridge to pull out a wine glass as had become his habit, a glass to cook with, white tonight for such hot night but remembered the quiet conversation he had had with the doctors at the hospital. Delirium tremens, whispered over the file notes. And the Sheriff telling him haltingly over the phone that the friend that Stiles had been traveling with for a while had called, worried about his drinking, now he was in hospital and Derek said he lived close by and would Peter please go and check on him. Peter had not even tried to get out of it was the thing. He had just said, yes, Sheriff I will go and check Stiles for you. He had no clue why. And then to top it all off Peter had gone and checked on him. Even worse Peter had scooped him up, this little, bony, care worn Stiles and brought him home. A nice cold glass of white wine was precisely not what spiky, withdrawing Stiles needed. Peter had watched the small sparks of magic coming Stiles fingers as he had brushed them across the walls and windows. What had Stiles been getting up? And what would he need next?

 

*****

 

Stiles woke up later that night terrified. It was in fact how he usually work in the night, terrified, sweating and furiously afraid of everything, every shape in the dark, every noise, every looming monster that would reveal itself to be a cupboard or closet, door swinging ajar in the night time. His heart was thundering in his chest and for a few desperate moments he could not work out where he was. He felt a pinch on the inside oh his elbow and when he touched it he pulled away a piece of surgical tape. His memory rushed back,a flood of faces, a bottle of ouzo, a small bag of coke and magic, magic, magic. It was leaking from him, weeping from his fingers. He shook his head and saw the face of Ella whom he had left so disastrously in Denmark, sobbing and begging him for more. Of Scott, Derek and his dad. He gasped once and looked around trying to find himself,trying to work out where the fuck he was. He heard a footstep a few metres from him and he jumped up out of bed.

Peter snapped on the the light.

‘Peter! What’s happening? Where…’ Stiles looked around wildly and clutched a pillow to his belly.

‘Sit down sweetheart.’ Peter gestured towards the blankets on the couch that Stiles had twisted into a knot.

‘You’re okay. Stiles. You’re okay.' Peter pushed him back to the couch and sat with him. He patted his back through the teeshirt he was wearing though it was damp with sweat.

‘Do you remember? Stiles? Do you remember how you got here?’

‘You came and got me…’ Stiles gulped trying to get his breath under control. He breathed in and held it a long thumping gasp of air.

‘Here, You’re shaking badly, are you cold?’ Peter tried to pull the blankets up around Stiles’ shoulders and tried to catch his eye. Stiles looked away.

‘Withdrawing, probably.’ Peter said. When Stiles looked up in surprise he laughed softly.

‘The doctor told me you came up positive for just about everything known to man. Probably few things not know to modern medicine too I imagine.’ He took Stiles right hand in his and curled the fingers around his own. Stiles fingers were sparking and trembling sending out a constant tingle of magic. Peter knew very little about it. But he could feel that it wasn't good. He picked Stiles up from the couch and scooped him against his chest. Even without extra strength this would have seemed easier than it should.

‘Would you like to try sleeping in my room Stiles? With me?’ Stiles shut his eyes and nodded obviously unable to pretend any longer to be able to face the rest of a long shaky night alone.

‘Yes Peter please. I can't.. I just... I need.’

How had things become so hard things for the little spark of the hills? Stiles asking for help was far beyond anything he imagined when he had first heard about him.  Poor proud Stiles.  All the spluttering and denial of the Stiles at the hospital and the eyebrow raised smirks of the Stiles who prowled around his flat sparking magic against the walls pausing meaningfully before eating the grilled chicken and steamed green beans Peter placed in front of him had been reduced to this shivering young man, coiled and clinging in his bed at 1030pm on Tuesday night in a small scruffy suburb in the north east of Paris.

It was clear to Peeter that Stiles was exhausted and worn out. He was reminded again of Stiles’ mother, Claudia, who had run the children's library hour that Peter had loved so much as a child. Claudia had been loved by everyone at the Beacon Hills Library, especially more so when her belly had swelled with a baby and her long light brown hair had seemed to swish with happiness along with her glowing brown eyes. Those same eyes Peter had sen in Stiles on that first night they had met after the dance and the same ones Stiles held tightly shut right now, shadowed and bruised.

Claudia had always seemed to belong to Beacon Hills the way Stiles and Peter themselves did and the way Stiles own precious spark did even as it was now,  leaking out harmlessly into Peters linen striped bed sheets and his soft camel coloured blankets. The smell of ozone  cleared as the sparks subsided. Peter remembered a school assignment he had to do in grade five about the history of their small town. He had gone to the library armed with a copy of the project folded in his pocket and asked Ms. Claudia for help finding the right kind of books. Stiles’ mother guided him to the local history section and showed him a small clutch of cardboard bound books written by people with old fashioned sounding names. “A Beacon in the night.’ By Mrs Betty Abney, “Warnings, signals and celebrations - a legacy of the hills” by Mr. Adam Cockburn.

It seemed to Peter that the titles suggested that somehow the people telling the history of Beacon Hills had known something of its mystical connections more so than its current inhabitants. Peter had often wondered about that. Did people really no longer know? The nemeton grew its roots into many of the town folk, werewolves still protected the land by calling it their own. Strange to think that Petwer and Stiles shared a bond to a small ton on the west coast of America even while they lay here together in his big bed in his small apartment with scuffed parquet flooring and battered Persian rugs and a strange hip height window that ran the length of the building on the south side.

Peter had been raised a wolf, taught to look for connections and meaning and to respect the call of magic, of otherness when it sang. He wondered what this all meant, Stiles sleeping feverishly in his arms in a bed a long way from home. Peter restlessly thumbed his phone on.

_Stiles OK, staying with me fora while. Will keep you updated. Peter_.

Peter watched the dots dance across the bottom of his screen unsurprised that the Sheriff was closely on his phone. He waited for a response but the three dots disappeared and did not return even though Peter kept a eye on his phone for a few minutes. Instead a new message appeared on his screen - from a number he did not recognise.

 

_Peter, my name is Grace, I’m a friend of the Sheriff. He is asleep right now. Thank for letting us know you have Stiles with you, he has been so worried. I will let him know in the morning. Please let me know if there is anything you need from here_.

Peter didn't know anyone called Grace. No less one who would be keeping the Sheriff company overnight. He wondered if Stiles did. If this was someone Stiles knew. Perhaps someone Stiles did not want to know. He wondered what Stiles would say about someone else keeping his dad company. Stiles shuddered in his sleep and Peter turnedh is phone face down on the small stool beside his bed. He slid down further under the sheets and stretched his toes back and forward in the bed. He could feel Stiles wake again next to him and submitted to the idea of a long difficult night.

‘Stiles?’

‘Peter?’

‘Go back to sleep okay? Here have a big sip of water first.’

‘Okay. Thanks. Sorry I was such an uppity little shit head before.’

‘I doubt that’s the end of uppity little shit head Stiles we’ve seen.’

They both sighed out loud. ‘Go to sleep sweetheart.’

And again later in the dark as Stiles heartbeat started to calm.

“I’ll be here. Go to sleep.’ Stiles sighed again and turned onto his side.

He wriggled his back up against Peter. Peter could feel the moment he fell to sleep. Sweet in the night, warm against his side.


End file.
